


where the moon and water meet

by vicari_us



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Air Traffic Controller Sakusa Kiyoomi, Alternate Universe, Aviation/Airline AU, Captain Miya Atsumu, Epistolary Romance, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Missed Connections, POV Sakusa Kiyoomi, Penpals-to-Lovers, Pining, long distance, love letters in the form of postcards, miyas are banned from the airport vip lounge, running joke about Tokyo Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicari_us/pseuds/vicari_us
Summary: Captain Miya Atsumu narrowly avoids crashing his prized Airbus A340 into unforgiving tarmac, but crashes into the life of an equally unforgiving Air Traffic Controller Sakusa Kiyoomi in the process.Also known as: Aeromance.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 85
Kudos: 254





	1. Take-Off

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the amazing art for this fic by Lee [here!](https://twitter.com/YORUUSS/status/1293088297196097538?s=20)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just think Atsumu would look good in a pilot's uniform and things snowball from there.

Tiny palms press against a wide expanse of sparkling glass, excited puffs of breath fogging up the window in front of Kiyoomi’s face. He rubs the side of a fist against it to clear it, but to his dismay, it returns to its cloudy state shortly after. His uncle chuckles from somewhere behind him and picks him up by the waist to sit on his hip with a disappointed whine.

Uncle points across the tarmac shimmering in the summer heat with an arm decorated with golden bands. “See that big red and white plane over there? I’ll be flying you home on that today. Are you excited?”

Kiyoomi nods into the lightly padded shoulder of Uncle’s suit jacket. It smells funny, like his usual spicy cologne mixed with plastic, coffee, and gasoline. He wrinkles his nose, eyes locked on the swirling burgundy livery of the aircraft looming in the distance. Butterflies flutter about in his belly like they always do before he has to fly. He clutches his uncle tightly, remembering how he promised that Kiyoomi would be safe, no matter how badly his ears ached and popped in the sky.

The echoes of their footsteps and suitcase wheels rumbling across the ridged aluminium floor of the airbridge reverberate within his small body and rattle in his skull. Airports are always too noisy. A tall lady with chestnut hair pulled back into an impossibly neat bun meets them at the aircraft door, greeting them both with a wide, bright smile.

“Good afternoon, Captain Komori! Is this the Kiyoomi-kun I’ve heard so much about?” she asks, voice melodic and sweet as she crouches down to give him a little wave. Kiyoomi frowns and hides further behind his uncle’s legs.

“It is indeed,” Uncle replies, ruffling Kiyoomi’s curls. “This is Sasaki-san. If you’re good for her today, I might let you come sit with me for a little while.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes light up at the thought of the handful of times he’d been allowed to sit with the pilots before—half an hour surrounded by multicoloured lights, buttons, and switches, the limitless blue sky decorated with candy floss clouds. He glances nervously at Sasaki-san and nods.

He sits in the front row of the plane, seatbelt clipped taut around his waist with his little fingers gripping the grey textured plastic of his armrests. The first few minutes are always the scariest, the roar of the engines still so loud through his earplugs. He’s proud that he doesn’t cry this time, finally remembering to swallow and clear the pressure in his ears. It’s the whirr of the aircon that sings him to sleep, and the cabin is dark when he wakes to Sasaki-san gently shaking his shoulder and pointing at the open cockpit door.

Outside the window is a world so big and so bright that Kiyoomi’s bleary eyes couldn’t take it all in even if they tried. His uncle pats the seat between him and a man with only two stripes on his shoulders, turning to face Kiyoomi when he’s seated. Kicking his legs that hang a foot above the ground, he only half-listens to Uncle’s voice while he stares at the shining lights of the ground below and the sky above.

“Have you ever seen a shooting star, Kiyoomi-kun?” he asks. Kiyoomi shakes his head.

A sudden flash of light streaks across the night in front of them. Kiyoomi shoots up in his seat, wide-eyed, all sleepiness gone in an instant. The hum of the engines, beeping of computers, and chatter of radios all fade to total silence in his focus. He has no room in his little world anymore for anything but the dozens of shining stars falling into it, their tails glowing incandescent white.

Uncle sits back in his seat to watch with him. “Do you have a wish?”

Kiyoomi nods vigorously and clasps his hands together just like he was taught to at the shrine back home. Maybe one of the stars would be kind enough to let him see it again. Then, he would have gold on his sleeves, too.

* * *

The airport is quiet for once. Only a few departures remain listed on the neon lights of the boards overhead: red-eye flights reserved only for backpackers and the most seasoned of travellers such as Kiyoomi himself. Across from him, a salaryman snores from behind the newspaper covering his face.

Gritting his teeth, Kiyoomi checks his phone for the sixth time in ten minutes. Five minutes until boarding—his escape.

Two pilots stand with their backs to him outside the shutters of a tiny Starbucks, getting increasingly heated in their conversation. Kiyoomi checks his phone for the seventh time.

“You think La Guardia is bad? Try Malpensa,” one of them scoffs. The slurp of coffee that follows makes Kiyoomi cringe. “I swear, not a single person in ATC knows what they’re doing over there.”

The other laughs, a loud and ugly sound. “You’re not wrong there. Aren’t they supposed to hire people who actually know a thing or two about planes?”

With a _ding_ and a crackle of static, a pleasant feminine voice announces that boarding for Kiyoomi’s flight has begun. He snatches up his backpack in one hand, passport and boarding pass tucked into his wallet in the other. Far outside the panoramic glass wall, an ocean of blinking LED lights glitters, both a welcome and a goodbye.

He thinks about the conversation he’d overheard as he settles into his seat on the plane, making the most of his ‘extra legroom’ that cost seven thousand yen for three inches. The pilots were right; air traffic controllers should definitely know a thing or two about planes. Other than those behind the array of controls in the cockpit, it’s the faceless voices heard through tinny headsets that are most responsible for a safe and comfortable flight.

The aircraft shudders backwards to the sound of a pre-recorded safety message, and he watches with keen but tired eyes as the outside world slowly passes him by. He thinks of the letter crumpled and torn in his luggage, the contents of it weighing heavily on his heart.

Three hundred words typed in Times New Roman and signed in Biro told him that his body just wasn’t built to withstand the pressure of working at altitude. An octagonal room perched atop a concrete pillar glows like a lighthouse beacon beyond his window, and he considers it.

Taking off doesn’t scare him like it did as a child anymore. A whirr, a roar, a rumble—he’s airborne.

The ground control tower shrinks to a near-invisible dot outside his window. He thinks of the work done there, and imagines himself at a desk inside of it.

It might be through a screen and a headset, no wings of gold, but he could still fly.

* * *

Kiyoomi would never say it aloud, but the night shift team is his favourite. The no-nonsense approach of Ojiro Aran combined with the astute wit of Suna Rintarou mesh well with his own calm and collected style of working, making concentration come easier than with the day team. Concentration is paramount to the role of the air traffic controller, after all. One slip of the tongue or a momentary lapse in judgement could be catastrophic.

He stares at the radar display in front of him, chin in one palm and headset tucked firmly over his ears. His desk is clear of objects and distractions other than the pen he flicks between his fingertips as he tracks the aircraft steadily moving in and out of his airspace. Every now and again pilots speak into his ears, always met with efficient professionalism and reliable instructions.

Efficiency is always key, especially with the turbulent weather systems currently indicated on his screen. Red, yellow, and green form pixelated clouds for him to navigate alongside the dozens of pilots leaving and approaching the airport, a puzzle that only he holds the key to solving. He has four aircraft circling overhead in a holding pattern, the nearest of which is almost ready to start its approach.

Heavily accented English pops and crackles over the static of radio waves into his headset. He grimaces and adjusts his volume.

“Tower, this is Inarizaki Air 452, ten miles back with a visual of runway two-seven,” the pilot says, far too cheerfully.

Kiyoomi spots the aircraft on his screen and ghosts a landing route across it with his pen. “Inarizaki Air 452, altimeter is three-zero.” A brief pause as the pilot adjusts his instruments. “452, altimeter three-zero.”

Three minutes pass, Kiyoomi still tracking the flickering radar. A cloud of green and yellow is approaching the runway, but not large enough for him to be concerned. He makes his decision. “Inarizaki Air 452, cleared to land. Runway two-seven, winds three-four-zero.”

“Roger that, ATC-kun. 452 cleared to land,” comes the pilot’s lilting response.

Kiyoomi can physically feel his brain short-circuiting. _ATC-kun?_

He clenches his jaw to ground himself, and focuses on the rapidly approaching dot. It hits minimum altitude and disappears from the display. Looking out of his window, he watches the red-and-white aircraft pierce the layer of gloomy clouds cloaking the airport, its landing gear poised for impact. The descent is flawless—perfect speed, perfect angle, perfect timing—a textbook landing in progress.

It makes it to about a hundred feet above ground before it all goes wrong.

Nose up, wings askew, the aircraft is hit by a sudden crosswind Kiyoomi had no way of predicting. His pen drops along with his jaw.

Headset buzzing to life, he hears rapid-fire Japanese spoken between the two pilots. The aircraft almost hovers in the air, massive jet rocking and fluttering like a leaf in the wind. Kiyoomi is preparing to call for emergency services when as suddenly as the crisis began, it’s over.

Wheels punch the ground with an ear-piercing screech he can hear through his headset, smoke billowing behind them as they skid across tarmac. The aircraft bumps and spins to a stop along the runway in a brutal ninety-degree turn, and the pilot in command whoops into his microphone.

“Kita-san, did ya see that?!” he hollers. “I fuckin’ knew it, I fuckin’ told ya all I could drift it—and we’re in Tokyo!" A pause, "Y’know, like _Tokyo Drift?_ Aw, c’mon-"

Kiyoomi gently removes his headset and stands from his chair. Aran is looking at him in alarm from the seat next to him, but Kiyoomi can’t take his eyes away from the chaos on the runway. Eight neon yellow slides burst from the aircraft exits, already surrounded by ambulances and fire engines, and he scowls. “I’m going on my break. Don’t disturb me.”

Aran looks between Kiyoomi, his screen, and the runway. Kiyoomi can still hear the shrieking from his headset. “But what about-”

“Absolutely not. I’m passing this on to my supervisor. Enjoy.”

* * *

In the morning, Kiyoomi learns through the multitude of WhatsApp notifications he’s bombarded with that Suna managed to film the entire debacle, and that the local newspaper that found his tweets had already made a mint in click revenue. He mutes the chat.

By the afternoon, bigger publications have taken hold of the story and are running with it. _BREAKING: Genius Captain Saves Hundreds_ , reads the front page of _The Japan Times_. _Inarizaki Pilot Sticks INSANE Landing!_ is a YouTube recommendation that Kiyoomi immediately blocks. Even his cousin calls him to ask about it in the evening.

“As far as I’m aware, the United States has internet access,” Kiyoomi snaps. “I’m hanging up.”

Komori’s voice is robotic, sounding as far away as he is. “Aw, you’re no fun. Reading a _Forbes_ article isn’t the same as hearing it from the actual source.”

Kiyoomi’s fingers twitch into a fist. He closes his eyes and pushes his knuckles into the growing crease between his brows. “Did you really just say _Forbes?_ ”

“Uh, yeah?” Komori’s confirmation comes out more like a question, as if Kiyoomi’s despair towards that idiot pilot being featured in _Forbes_ is in any way unwarranted. “So, do you know him? Dad says he’s heard of the Miyas, but he’s never worked with them.”

His name was Miya, then. Easier to avoid someone when you know their name.

“We’re acquainted, unfortunately,” he mutters. “Uncle should think himself lucky, because Miya turned into a crosswind just to prove he could ‘drift’ a damn commercial airliner.” A distorted burst of near-hysterical laughter comes through his speaker. “Komori, this isn’t funny. The media might be calling him a hero, but that man could’ve killed hundreds of people with that stunt.”

A snort and a rustle of fabric as Komori shifts on the other end of the line. “You’re so doom and gloom. If he really did it on purpose, he must’ve known he was good enough to pull it off.”

“Don’t defend him.”

“I’m not wrong though,” he says, then his tone changes to one of suspicion. “Wait, how do you know all this anyway?” Kiyoomi remains silent. “No way—were _you_ his handler? Haha, no wonder you’re so pissed off—”

Kiyoomi hangs up. A minute later, Komori sends him six laughing emojis and is pointedly left on read.

When he reluctantly loads the mentioned article on his laptop, it’s complete nonsense. It also features Suna’s video, of course, and goes into detail describing and explaining the ‘high-risk maneuver that saved an entire flight’. Saved? Almost doomed, all because its Captain got too cocky and wanted to make a shitty joke which, he might add, didn’t even get a laugh from either of the others who were unfortunate enough to hear it.

Kiyoomi watched that aircraft come in with his own two eyes. The descent and approach were unbearably perfect; a result of thousands of flight hours and a testament to the skill of a Captain. However, what the article fails to mention is the fact that the company had already taken a pay cut from him for burning rubber and mangling the landing gear, and from the cabin manager who added to the chaos by blowing about ten million yen’s worth of escape slides on the runway. Their hero of the hour is nothing but an irresponsible idiot with four too many stripes.

Inarizaki Air might be happy with making an idol out of Captain Miya Atsumu with their cover-up, but Kiyoomi is not.

* * *

Two weeks later, Kiyoomi finally thinks to himself that maybe, just maybe, the hype has died down and he can do his job without hearing ‘Miya’ and ‘drift’ in the same sentence multiple times a day.

He’s watching his monitor, lost in thought, when an incoming aircraft pings him and bursts his bubble.

A voice he hoped to never hear again graces his eardrums with a passive-aggressive greeting. “Good afternoon, Tower! Inarizaki Air 156 hopin’ to finally get outta holding, if ya would be so kind.”

He mulls the request over, then adjusts his microphone to give in to the pettiness in his heart. “Inarizaki Air 156, remain in a holding pattern at flight level four-zero.”

“What, seriously?” Miya moans, incredulous. “We’re the only ones up here!”

“Roger that, 156,” Kiyoomi replies, hoping the smirk on his face doesn’t carry over to his voice. “I repeat, remain at flight level four-zero.”

A muttered curse, and the line cuts off. Kiyoomi leans back in his chair to watch with satisfaction as the yellow dot on his screen circles the airport in hopeless loops. He knows he can’t delay the flight too much, but ten minutes would be just enough to annoy the Captain while keeping the passengers happy.

He loves his job.

Three minutes pass, and he’s pinged again. “This is Tower. Inarizaki Air 156, remain in holding.”

Miya’s irritation is as clear as the sky above even through four thousand feet of radio waves, and it’s wonderful. “What the hell, how’d ya even know it was me?”

“The ATC system has a spam filter,” Kiyoomi drawls, balancing his pen between his fingers. He spots Suna watching him from his desk with an amused glint in his eyes. The others are already onto him, then. “Your flight number is shown on my radar, obviously.”

“For someone with such a nice voice, ya sure do waste it on bein’ a stubborn ass,” Miya spits. Kiyoomi can almost hear the grit of his teeth.

Kiyoomi ignores the backhanded compliment and checks his watch. “Oh no, a slot just opened up for a take-off from runway two-seven. Remain in holding, 156.”

“Y’know, it’s almost like ya have a personal issue with me, ATC-kun,” the emphasis on that damn nickname tells Kiyoomi that he’s not the only one who remembers their last interaction. “Kinda unprofessional, dontcha think?”

“Unprofessional?” Kiyoomi raises his eyebrows at the blatant hypocrisy. “ _Please_ remain in holding, 156.”

Miya’s voice is suddenly clearer, like he’d yanked his microphone closer to his lips to deliver his empty threat. “If I were on the ground right now, I’d kick yer ass.”

The yellow dot begins yet another smooth circuit around the elusive runway. “Over and out, 156.”

Suna is grinning when Kiyoomi hangs up to let the pilot stew once more. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Just how much Osamu is going to love hearing about his brother being put in his place,” he replies, wiggling the phone in his palm. “Good work, Sakusa.”

A brother. Of course. Komori had said ‘Miyas’ plural, but Kiyoomi hadn’t cared enough to hear about one of them, never mind multiple. He doesn’t bother to ask about how or why Suna has Osamu’s contact details, already sure that he doesn’t want to know.

He can’t help but wonder whether Osamu is another pilot, or if there’s yet another Miya he had yet to be introduced to. He doesn’t know whether he hopes for the former or not, given Atsumu’s growing reputation. One Captain Miya is more than enough.

“It’s only what he deserves,” Kiyoomi says.

Another loop on the radar. Another ping.

Before he can even open his mouth to speak, Miya talks over him. “Let’s play twenty questions, ATC-kun.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, disappointed but not surprised by the attempt to converse. “156, remain in holding and let me do my job.”

“What colour’s yer eyes?” Miya continues anyway, full steam ahead.

“Remain in holding.”

The response is full of static. “Mine are brown. Okay then, how tall are ya?”

“Remain in holding.”

“Maybe I like bein’ ignored. How about that, ATC-kun?”

Kiyoomi feels his face and fingers twitch. That damn nickname. “My name isn’t ATC-kun, it’s Sakusa. Stop it.”

The fuzzy cackling that follows informs him that he’d fallen into a trap. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sakusa what? If ya don’t tell me, ATC-kun is gonna stick.”

He hesitates for a moment. Anonymity was a perk of his job, but if he never hears Miya say that nickname again, it will still be too soon. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

There’s some shuffling and a hum on the end of the line. “Didn’t quite catch that. Did ya say Omi?”

Kiyoomi wants to lift his monitor and mash his face into it with frustration and regret. Somehow, he maintains his composure and instead snaps, “No. _Kiyoomi_. 156, altimeter three-zero. Cleared to land on runway two-seven, winds two-zero-zero.”

“Finally,” Miya says, and the grin Kiyoomi can hear is insufferable. “Thanks very much, Omi-kun. Inarizaki Air 156 cleared to land.”

The line goes dead. Suna laughs. Kiyoomi goes on his break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the fic playlist [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7uNy26MWUUp4kq1URPKfGs?si=78Vv99EgTxmVSPLwg-duiQ) A bit cursed, a bit funny, a bit cheesy: kind of like this fic.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/vicari_us) / [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/vicari_us)


	2. Cruise

Miya’s infuriating voice and even more infuriating nickname haunt Kiyoomi far more frequently than he ever could have imagined. By the time two months pass by he’s convinced his teammates have organised their breaks to coincide with Miya’s flights, simply to leave Kiyoomi to deal with his nonsense. He deals with Miya at least once a week, at most twice.

Statistically, such frequent interactions should be impossible. Unfortunately, statistics were not on Kiyoomi’s side.

“Good evening, Tower! This is Inarizaki Air 238, twenty miles out with a crystal-clear visual of runway two-seven.”

Kiyoomi adjusts his headset. He doesn’t even need to introduce himself anymore, and so he sighs into his microphone for maximum expression of exasperation. “Good evening, Miya.”

Miya’s voice is just as chipper as the first time he heard it, if not more so. “Omi-kun! Lucky me managed to catch ya on shift again, huh?”

“Yeah, lucky you,” Kiyoomi deadpans. He taps away at his keyboard. “Continue approach.”

There’s a faint click as Miya adjusts his instruments. “Roger. So how’s life on the ground?”

Miya likes to try and make conversation whenever they cross paths, Kiyoomi has learned. Sometimes it’s something as mundane as the gloomy weather earlier that day in London, sometimes as random as a brand new action film Kiyoomi has no intention of watching.

He used to dislike listening to Miya more often than not. However, he now finds that most of the time, he doesn’t mind.

Kiyoomi flicks his pen between his fingers with more force than is necessary, and it pings off of his keyboard to land between his feet with a quiet thump. He grits his teeth. He does _not_ pout.

“Better before you were in it,” he snipes, voice coming out strained as he reaches for his pen-gone-rogue.

Miya ignores the half-hearted malice and laughs. “If only ya sounded like ya meant it. What’re ya doin’ that’s makin’ ya sound so stressed?”

Pen acquired, Kiyoomi leans back in his seat. Miya’s aircraft is steadily approaching the runway, slipping through clouds of green pixels with ease. “I’m not stressed, I just dropped my pen.”

“Am I really that distractin’, Omi-kun?” Miya teases.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Is your co-pilot enjoying hearing you flirt with ground control when you should be working on landing your aircraft?”

“Hey, right now I’m the pilot observin’, not flyin’, so I can flirt with whoever I want,” Miya retorts, before returning to his previous lilting tone. “Besides, is it workin’?”

Miya also likes to flirt with him whenever they cross paths, Kiyoomi has learned. Kiyoomi is familiar with organising, controlling, and communicating with any and all incoming pilots and their aircraft, yet he has never been in such a situation other than with one of them. He is still unsure how to deal with it.

“Not particularly,” he replies. “Altimeter three-zero.”

“So cold!” There’s a whirr as Miya adjusts another instrument, “Altimeter three-zero. Say, would ya ever wanna meet up in person someday?”

Kiyoomi raises his eyebrows. “Are you asking me out, Miya?”

He can hear the smirk in Miya’s voice, even if he doesn’t know yet what it looks like. “Not particularly. It’d just be nice to put a face to the name.”

Kiyoomi ignores the subtle drop of his heart and focuses on the knot in his stomach. If he were to admit it to himself, he would say he’s somewhat scared of meeting Miya in person. Nobody but Kiyoomi seems to have a bad word to say about him, instead choosing to gush about his talent, skill, and apparent good looks. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, was rejected from the career Miya dedicated his entire life and heart to. In all honesty, that makes him feel a little small, especially compared to someone always so larger than life.

Meeting Captain Miya Atsumu is not what Kiyoomi wants, when what he really wants is to be him.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, a half-truth. “Inarizaki 238, cleared to land on runway two-seven, winds one-nine-zero.”

Miya’s aircraft with its swirling burgundy livery pierces through the final barrier of wispy clouds, and Miya whoops into his microphone. For a brief moment, Kiyoomi is concerned that he is about to have yet another report to file on an airliner drift. “Home sweet home,” Miya says with a sigh. “Thanks as always for keepin’ us safe, Omi-kun.”

“Don’t thank me, it’s my job.”

As he approaches the runway, Miya’s voice begins to get clearer. Kiyoomi resolutely does not enjoy the sound. “So? Ya could’ve chosen any job, yet ya chose to look after us lot.”

Kiyoomi snorts—if only he knew. He glances at his radar map for any rogue winds, then watches as Miya’s landing gear slides out and locks into place above the runway. “Sure. Welcome home, Miya.”

* * *

One day some weeks later, Kiyoomi is on his lunch break and wanders past a restaurant he’d seen but never really registered for months. What makes it register as ‘Onigiri Miya’ and not just Random Store B for the first time isn’t the name—not at least for a few hours, embarrassingly—but because of the familiar laugh that rings out across the busy airport as he walks past.

Kiyoomi freezes with his heart not in his throat, but his mouth. It pounds against his teeth and ribs as he realises that _he knows that laugh_ , and the fact that he knows _Miya’s_ laugh well enough to recognise it makes him stop in his tracks.

A slow turn of his head reveals a man in a branded apron and hat leaning against the restaurant’s front counter. He’s tall, towering above the customer in front of him even with his casual slouch. Short black hair peeks out from under the bill of his cap, swooping halfway across his forehead. It doesn’t quite cover the thick eyebrows above his hooded grey eyes, which are lit up with mirth. He is most certainly not a pilot.

_Suna is grinning when Kiyoomi hangs up to let the pilot stew once more. “What’s so funny?” he asks._

_“Just how much Osamu is going to love hearing about his brother being put in his place,” he replies, wiggling the phone in his palm. “Good work, Sakusa.”_

_A brother. Of course._

“Osamu,” Kiyoomi says to himself, something like relief washing over him.

Unfortunately, Osamu hears him. He looks up from his conversation and fixes Kiyoomi with a quizzical stare, seemingly trying to figure out why a complete stranger has just said his name out of the blue. Kiyoomi doesn’t blame him.

They stand no less than six feet apart, only the ambient noise of voices, suitcase wheels, and tinny announcements filling the silence. The customer between them takes note of the atmosphere and shuffles away with a quiet goodbye. It’s awkward, to say the least.

“...Can I help you?” Osamu asks politely. He raises the bill of his cap to look up at Kiyoomi, indirectly giving him a better look at his face. Osamu is handsome, and Kiyoomi remembers the rumours of his brother’s good looks. He wonders how similar they might look, then squashes that thought when he realises Osamu is still waiting for an answer.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi replies, dipping his head into a small bow. “I thought you were someone else.”

Osamu huffs a short laugh, then a wry smile spreads across his face. “Y’know, I get that a lot, bein’ a twin and all. It ain’t too often someone calls me ‘Osamu’ when they’re confused, though.”

“You’re Miy—Atsumu’s twin?” Kiyoomi asks, surprised. His next thought leaves his lips without his express permission. “Are you identical?”

Osamu’s lazy eyes narrow as he considers Kiyoomi, observing him as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra limb or five. “Who did ya think I was if ya didn’t think I was Atsumu?”

Blunt honesty has always served Kiyoomi well. “I did think you were Atsumu. I heard your voice, but I don’t know what he looks like.”

“Well, now ya do,” Osamu says, gesturing to himself. “Imagine me, but with shitty blonde hair and an even shittier personality. How d’ya know his voice but not his face, anyway?”

Kiyoomi explains to Osamu that unfortunately, he’s the ATC member apparently doomed to suffer the fate of dealing with his brother whenever he happens to be on shift. When he begins to describe the infamous drift, he sees a lightbulb flick on behind Osamu’s eyes.

“Ah, so _you’re_ the ‘Omi-kun’ ‘Tsumu keeps talkin’ about,” he says, nodding knowingly. He smirks. “Thanks for lookin’ out for my idiot brother.”

“I’ve already told him not to thank me,” Kiyoomi mutters, “and to stop calling me that. My name is Sakusa.”

“How the hell did he get Omi from Sakusa?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Via a threat. My given name is Kiyoomi, but he seems to have a liking for nicknames.”

Osamu snorts. “That he does. Hey, since yer here, wanna try out one of my new recipes? It’s the least I can do to make up for Atsumu’s”—he waves his hand around as he thinks for the appropriate phrase— “y’know. Him bein’ himself.”

Thankfully, Kiyoomi is saved from having to eat food handled by a stranger by the bento in his bag. Osamu tells an employee that he’s going on his break, and they sit together at the bar as they dig into their respective lunches. Kiyoomi finds that he doesn’t mind Osamu’s company too much, sitting mostly quietly as he relays embarrassing stories he knows Atsumu would never tell.

Apparently, Atsumu’s whole career took off on the wings of a paper plane at age five. The twins competed on who could fly their plane the furthest, the momentum taking them all the way to flight school together in their teens. Osamu smiles fondly when he relays the moment they both gained their pairs of First Officer stripes, and it slips into wistful territory when he explains that a year later he quit to open his restaurant.

(Osamu doesn’t tell him how Atsumu felt about that decision. Kiyoomi doesn’t ask.)

He finds out that both twins were banned from the airport VIP lounges for life during their training for abusing their free snack bars. He also finds out that Nekoma Air has been trying to poach Atsumu from Inarizaki for years, and that the only reason he wasn’t fired after the ‘drift incident’ was because of the influx of free positive, yet sorely misinformed, PR.

“You can thank Suna for that,” Kiyoomi comments. “He’s the one who anonymously posted the video to Twitter.”

Osamu smirks. “Oh, I know. He sent it to me first, posting it was my idea. Didn’t think it’d help ‘Tsumu so much, but didn’t think it’d do any harm neither.”

Overall, Kiyoomi’s first impression of Osamu is a good one. He sees the similarities in the way they speak, but it’s almost jarring to hear something so like Atsumu’s voice come from the calm, friendly, onigiri stand owner he’d been accidentally walking past daily for years.

Gathering his things, Osamu makes him promise to drop by again sometime in exchange for a meal he won’t regret. Kiyoomi doubts this, but politely agrees anyway.

As he slips on his hi-vis jacket and dips out of the store, Kiyoomi thinks of blonde hair and rich laughter crackling through his headset. He wonders what it would sound like in person, rather than in his memory.

* * *

Sometimes, Kiyoomi wonders what life could have looked like had he made volleyball something more than a high school hobby. He remembers Komori shooting to stardom as the nation’s star libero by his early twenties and flexes his wrists on impulse.

A dream of a life where the moon and water meet was born that day in his childhood. Then, Kiyoomi couldn’t imagine anything but living to see the beauty of the world from above, just like his Uncle had shown him. Volleyball once came a close second as his life’s passion. Komori introduced him to it and it to him, and he fell in love a second time. He was good, _very_ good—one of the best in the nation before he turned sixteen. Scouts from some of the top teams in the country hounded him, but he declined them all, knowing that flight school was his future.

Correction: he’d only _thought_ it was his future.

There were very strict regulations for pilots and cabin crew, he learned at eighteen. He never considered that they might affect him, until one doctor’s appointment turned into two, into five, into eight—then into three hundred words of Times New Roman that sealed his fate.

He received a phone call two weeks later. The doctor was polite, his voice sympathetic yet clipped in a manner reserved only for giving bad news.

_“You see, there are some limitations in place with international regulations. It's really nothing personal… Maybe try cabin crew? A class 2 medical isn't as in-depth—”_

In that moment, his heart sank into his shoes and through the floor. Who knew that his flexible body could be such a double-edged sword?

Being cabin crew just wasn’t the same; dealing with the public was never Kiyoomi’s strongest suit. He reread the letter over and over again before his flight, leaving it covered in angry creases and smudges. The future he’d planned out so diligently may have nosedived like a plane without wings, but that overheard conversation between a pair of unknown pilots was the lifejacket he so sorely needed.

He has a career now, and a purpose. He truly enjoys his mostly anonymous existence, being the ‘man in the chair’ behind hundreds of safe flights every day. His work goes mostly unappreciated, being less glamorous than that of a pilot, but he knows how valuable it is. He knows how hard he works, how much effort he puts into every moment. He knows that his individual expertise is responsible for every successful take-off and landing he lays his eyes upon.

Although, of course the perks of discounted travel that come with a job like his did _not_ go unappreciated.

It’s this discount that finds Kiyoomi settling into an Inarizaki Air flight to America to visit his cousin and watch his most critical match of the season in person. He’s wiped down his tray table and is about to slip on his headphones when the overhead speakers burst to life.

“Good afternoon, this is Captain Kita Shinsuke speakin',” comes the mild voice of one of the pilots. “I’ll be takin’ ya to San Francisco with a flight time of approximately nine hours and twenty minutes. Workin' alongside me today is—”

Kiyoomi turns up his music and tunes out the rest of his speech, already more than familiar with its usual contents. The flight time was reasonable, so there would be no expected turbulence. He takes one last glance outside at the clear blue skies of Tokyo, then closes his eyes to sleep away the many hours and wake in time for landing.

At some point, his bluetooth headphones must have run out of battery, and a new voice rouses him from his light slumber. Kiyoomi is disoriented for a moment, blinking blearily. He almost believes he had fallen asleep at his desk—there’s no way that voice belonged to who he thought it did.

“—so please listen to the instructions of the crew, and don’t just ignore the seatbelt signs like I know yer all prone to do,” the voice continues. “If ya need anything from us, don’t hesitate to ask. Thank you, and this was your _other_ Captain speaking, Miya Atsumu.”

Of course, Kiyoomi realises, he must still be asleep. He reclines his seat further, shuffles his feet. He wonders whether it is possible that this time, he would see Miya’s face in his dreams, not just hear his voice. He falls back into unconsciousness.

The cabin is dark and quiet when he wakes. Outside the window is a cloudless sky, a wide expanse of lakes and mountains glowing and shimmering under the warm light of dawn. As the aircraft approaches the airport, the seatbelt signs blink on to prepare for landing as kind cabin crew click-clack their way down the aisles. Sleepy towns make way for the glimmer of millions of bright city lights across the bay, and then with a jolt, they land right on time.

“Good morning, and welcome to San Francisco,” greets Captain Kita in perfect English. “The local time is 6:40 AM. From myself, Captain Miya, and the rest of the crew, we would like to thank you for flying with Inarizaki Air today, and hope to see you again soon.”

The tannoy fizzles out softly, and Kiyoomi jolts to full alertness. _It wasn’t a dream._

He waits in his seat until his neighbours have moved to gather their things, then plants his face in his hands. Of _course_ the one flight Kiyoomi had taken in the past six months had to be one of Miya’s. Maybe he’d have the good fortune of the pilots staying behind their bulletproof door for once—

He hears a click, then the warm laughter that had been haunting him for months rings out through the open doorway with perfect clarity.

Somehow, it’s far less irritating in person.

He stands once the aisle clears, opening the overhead locker to grab his luggage and make a swift escape. Unfortunately, his backup plan is foiled when he spots a man duck out of the cockpit with the head of blonde hair he was warned about.

 _It’s not shitty at all, Osamu_ , is his first thought. His second is: _the uniform suits him_.

Atsumu leans casually against the galley wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks. Four golden stripes adorn each of his shoulders, crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbows. He holds a hat under his armpit, patent leather peak contrasting against the golden pair of wings embroidered on it. He’s smiling broadly down at one of the flight attendants, chatting animatedly about one thing or another. Whenever a passenger passes by, they politely pause their conversation to wish them goodbye, then return to their conversation.

Kiyoomi swallows, tongue thick in his mouth. He knew that Osamu was handsome and therefore his twin would be too, but he didn’t expect to feel the immediate tug of attraction deep in his gut. There was some sort of extra edge to Atsumu that Kiyoomi couldn’t put a finger on. Maybe it was the uniform.

For the first time in his life, Kiyoomi wants the uniform astronomically less than the man wearing it. It terrifies him.

He mentally shakes himself, then shifts his surgical mask up his face and shuffles up the aisle towards the exit, and Atsumu.

His grip on his suitcase is a vise, fingernails digging into his palm. It’s not like Atsumu would recognise him, but what about his voice? Would a simple ‘goodbye’ give him away? What would Atsumu think—what would he do?

There’s no point in worrying, he knows, so he draws in a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. When he reaches the galley, Atsumu looks up like with every other passenger and gives Kiyoomi his winning smile—

But it’s all wrong. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, years of customer service training washing out any genuine kindness from the creases in his cheeks. Kiyoomi frowns, and the smile slips a little into something resembling curiosity.

“...Can I help you?” Atsumu asks, eerily echoing his brother.

Kiyoomi shakes his head, opens his mouth; he tries to say something, anything. No words find him.

If only that smile were something real, something personal—something meant for him. Kiyoomi opens his mouth again and mumbles a quiet goodbye under his breath. If Atsumu recognises him, he doesn’t know; he turns and tugs his suitcase out of the aircraft door and onto the airbridge without a second look back.


	3. Landing

It’s three weeks later when Kiyoomi next hears Atsumu’s voice over the radio waves. He jokes that he’s going to get ‘his ATC-kun’ a souvenir from his next trip and despite Kiyoomi’s protests, a small postcard from Paris lands on his desk a week later. Suna pops his head over his desk to eye it curiously before being sent back to work by Aran.

On the front is a minimalist illustration of the Eiffel Tower at dusk. A waning crescent moon hangs low in the sky, a small boat bobbing peacefully along the River Seine. Walking along the cobbled embankment, a young couple are silhouetted by the yellow glow of a pair of street lights. It’s a beautiful scene—purples and blues merging into a hazy orange skyline. Kiyoomi flips it over.

_To: Omi-kun_

_Greetings from Paris! I wish I could say it looks as pretty as the photos, but it hasn’t stopped raining since the moment we landed. Good thing I’m the best at my job, or we might end up stuck here for a while!_

_I went to meet an old friend yesterday, a chocolatier called Satori-kun. I know from our lovers’ spat the last time we spoke that you’re not the biggest fan of foodie gifts, but I promise you now that one day I’ll have you try his chocolates, and that you’ll fall in love with them._

_It’ll be a bumpy ride home, but I’ll be flying us back on Wednesday. Hope to hear you on the other end of the line when I do._

_How do people usually sign these damn things off? ‘Wish you were here’?_

_Well, maybe I do._

_Yours, Atsumu_

Atsumu’s handwriting is exactly how Kiyoomi imagined it, if not somehow worse. He wrote in ink that smudged across the page here and there, tiny looping characters punctuated with the odd black thumbprint. Despite how long it took to decipher his message, it was endearing, maybe even sweet. The return address scribbled along the right-hand side is an apartment on the other side of Tokyo, not surprising Kiyoomi in the slightest. He wonders how Atsumu might react if he sent a postcard in return.

Two weeks later, another postcard finds its way to the Tower, this time from a sandy beach in Barbados. Atsumu has doodled himself with sunglasses and giant biceps in the corner, making Kiyoomi snort. Atsumu only wishes.

“What’s with the postcards?”

Kiyoomi looks up with a small jolt, meeting Suna’s narrow eyes across the divider between their desks. He’s folded his arms on top of it to rest his chin, seemingly settled in for his questioning.

“None of your business,” he replies, smoothly slipping the latest postcard into his desk drawer.

“You do know that postcards don’t have envelopes to hide what’s written on them, right?” Suna drawls.

Kiyoomi slams the drawer shut, a defensive scowl taking over his face. “You’ve been reading my mail?”

“Hey, I promise I haven’t read anything,” he insists, unfolding his arms to hold up his hands. “I just recognise Atsumu’s handwriting. I know him, remember?”

Kiyoomi kicks his desk to roll his chair back a few inches, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms across his chest.

Suna rolls his eyes. “I’m not judging you. I just don’t know why you don’t just message each other.”

“I don’t have his details,” he replies. “Ats—Miya started it.”

“You could just ask me for it,” Suna says, raising his eyebrows and popping a bubble in his gum between his teeth. Kiyoomi cringes and scoots back another inch. “Do you have his address?”

“Yes?”

“Then I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” he concludes. He reaches to pluck Kiyoomi’s pen from between his fingers, then scribbles a LINE ID on top of the post-it note stack on his desk. “There. Now you can do it the modern way, as well as the old-fashioned way. Thank me later.”

With that, Suna slips back into his seat to resume whatever work he was doing. Kiyoomi stares at the post-it, eventually deciding to stick it to the underside of his monitor. After he’s sure it isn’t somehow going to fall off and blow away, he takes his latest postcard from his drawer and reads it.

_To: Omi-kun_

_Greetings from Bridgetown! Is it weird to say I miss the rain in Paris, because I do. It’s way too hot here!_

_The beaches in Barbados are beautiful though, and so is the landing approach. It’s one of my favourites because it’s just endless clear ocean and spotless white sand. I’d like to show you it someday._

_I know you hate sand, but it’s just different looking at it from the air. I think you’d agree._

_Not much more to report. I’ve spent most of my time on the beach, so I’ve got a pretty sweet tan now, at least._

_Wish you were here!_

_Yours, Atsumu_

Kiyoomi places the postcard face-down on his desk and stares at the post-it. It stares back.

 _‘I’d like to show you it someday’_ plays on his mind for a few hours _._ He could, Kiyoomi realises, if he sent him a video. He picks up his phone.

* * *

The postcards continue coming even after Kiyoomi sends his first ‘hello’. He wonders what name flashes on Atsumu’s phone every time he presses send.

Eventually, he buys a small plastic wallet to store them all—New York, Amsterdam, Johannesburg, Sydney, the list goes on—when they start to clutter his drawer. Every one begins with _Greetings!_ and ends with _yours_. Kiyoomi gathers the courage to send a few of his own whenever he visits Komori in the States, starting instead with _Atsumu,_ yet still ending with _yours._ As he writes them in his own neat print under lamplight, he lets himself smile just a little.

Atsumu is thrilled when he receives his first postcard. He calls Kiyoomi at a ridiculous hour of the morning to gush about how surprised and happy he was to get one in return, asking him a flurry of questions about his time spent with his cousin. They both talk about volleyball, each revealing their individual past with the sport. Atsumu notes that it was odd, actually, that they met across a runway rather than a net. Kiyoomi agrees, but says that perhaps it would have been the wrong time. Atsumu hums.

“D’ya actually wanna meet me someday, Omi-kun?” he asks quietly. There’s still a hint of grit in his voice from sleep. Kiyoomi thinks sleepily to himself that he’d like to hear it in person.

“I’d like to hear you in person, too,” Atsumu laughs down the receiver. Kiyoomi blinks. _Oops._ “I’d also like to know what ya look like. Those twenty questions back then didn’t get me very far, y’know.”

He had forgotten Atsumu still hadn’t seen his face. He had also forgotten that Atsumu didn’t know he had seen _his._ “Tall, black hair, black eyes, very tired, not one for selfies,” he grumbles with a yawn for emphasis.

Another laugh. “Not much of a mornin’ person, are ya?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head before realising that Atsumu can’t see him. “Not in the slightest.”

_But maybe for you, today._

Alongside the postcards begins a collection of photographs sent from the air. The first is the view of the Swiss Alps from the cockpit, huge snow-capped peaks jutting out of the earth with lush green valleys in-between. It takes Kiyoomi’s breath away, but not as much as the selfie Atsumu sends wearing aviators and that bright, genuine smile he once hoped to see someday. Unfiltered sunlight from thousands of feet above the clouds shines against the flicks of his golden hair, a pink tinge high on his cheeks from yet another weekend on a Meditteranean beach. Behind him is the boot-shape of Italy miles below, broken up by fluffy white clouds scattered across the sky.

Atsumu jokes that he should set it as his phone wallpaper. He does.

The more Kiyoomi looks at it, the less he thinks about his old dream to see that view from the cockpit himself. The initial burst of envy fades to vicarious joy every time Atsumu’s smiling face fills his vision, and it warms him inside.

Atsumu continues to send him digital souvenirs: flight footage, short clips of himself mid-flight when bored, and one time an apology holding a postcard he forgot to send. It still arrives a week later, just with a local stamp for once.

Kiyoomi sees the world through a pilot’s eyes, falling in love with flying once more. He doesn’t get to see a shooting star again, but he does see every weather formation imaginable in full HD, including two particular videos Kiyoomi saves to his favourites folder.

The first starts with the camera facing Atsumu, excitedly explaining the situation outside of his windows. He flips it to show a huge cluster of clouds looming all the way along the jagged Meditteranean coastline of Europe, thousands of miles long. They’re immense, all a deep grey against the inky black backdrop of night. Atsumu gasps when the first lights up, and within seconds all of them burst alight with giant forks of lightning like a stack of dominoes.

“Nature sure is beautiful, huh?” is Atsumu’s muffled, wistful commentary. “I’m ‘boutta fly right through them though, so maybe nature is a lil’ bit scary too. Wish me luck!”

The second is a view of London on the fifth of November. Fireworks fill the sky below, blooming like a giant field of neon flowers above one of the brightest cities in the world. The video stuns Kiyoomi into silence. He can’t believe that Atsumu is so used to it: seeing miracles of nature and celebrations of humanity from such a unique and beautiful vantage point.

Between flights, Atsumu and Kiyoomi exchange photos from their everyday lives. Kiyoomi mostly sends videos of his dog, while Atsumu is a little more varied. He seems to find excitement in everything in life, whether it be aeroplane models he collects, a broken light fixture outside his favourite _konbini_ , or stroking the stray cat from down the street. At his desk, Kiyoomi saves the pictures in two albums: the ones from high above the clouds are from Captain Miya, but the ones from the ground are from Atsumu.

Once the ‘Atsumu’ folder overtakes ‘Captain Miya’, Kiyoomi wonders whether it’s the photos from the ground or from the sky that look more beautiful to him these days.

* * *

Kiyoomi makes a decision on his way home from San Francisco once more. He clicks his pen and gets to work.

_To: Atsumu_

_Greetings from San Francisco. The weather was terrible, but I’m sure you know that considering you flew me here. Komori is well, and sends his regards. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself on the way here, but I didn’t quite know how._

_I thought about what you said a few weeks ago, about meeting. I think I’d like to._

Halfway through writing his card, the overhead tannoy switches on with a click.

“Good afternoon, this is Captain Miya Atsumu! We’re on the descent into Tokyo—”

Kiyoomi drops his pen. Apparently, he had another chance to build the courage and approach the man occupying every room in his mind for months. He swallows and scrabbles to pull out another pen and finish his note. Maybe in the fifteen minutes remaining of his flight, he could gather the dregs of confidence he has to write and deliver his postcard by hand for once.

Unfortunately, fate seemed to have other plans. Their landing is a bumpy one, and the pilots stay holed up in their den afterwards rather than coming out to see their passengers off. Kiyoomi sighs with defeat but also with relief, slipping the postcard into his bag to send on the way home. He’s waited for long enough, a little longer won’t make much of a difference.

_I hope this card finds you well._

_Yours, Omi_

* * *

One week later, and he has his answer.

“Tower, this is Inarizaki Air 706, twenty miles back with a visual of runway two-seven.”

Kiyoomi holds his breath. He hadn’t heard from Atsumu in a few days, so this was the first time his voice had reached his ears since he’d sent his postcard. He’s nervous, a handful of butterflies making a home in his stomach for the first time since he was a child.

He releases the breath.

“This is Tower. Altimeter is three-zero.”

The butterflies scatter and disappear to the sound of Atsumu’s surprised laughter. “Omi-kun! Ya could at least sound more pleased to see me.”

“I can’t see you, Atsumu. It’s cloudy.”

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Don’t be a damn smartass, ya know what I mean,” he counters, before a deep breath of his own. “By the way, I got yer postcard. Did ya mean it?”

Did he mean it? Did he mean that the only thing on his mind for weeks had been finally meeting the man on the other side of the radio, and that if Atsumu turned him down he wouldn’t know what to do?

“Of course I did,” he replies. He tries to keep his voice low in its usual monotone, squashing down any hope and nerves to shove into a box and hide inside of him. “Do you want to?”

Atsumu laughs again, this time uncharacteristically quiet. It would almost be intimate, if Kiyoomi didn’t know he had a co-pilot listening in. “Of course I do. All I’ve thought about for months is finally seein’ yer face.”

“All you had to do was ask,” Kiyoomi replies, hope peeking out from its box. He mentally bats it away when nerves try to follow.

“Well, yer worth the wait. What time do ya finish tonight?”

Kiyoomi checks his watch. “In fifteen minutes.”

“What?! Aw fuck—”

“Meet me at the tower, I’ll wait,” Kiyoomi interrupts. He traces a landing route with fingers that certainly do not tremble.

The crackle of the radio begins to clear as Atsumu speaks. “You’ll definitely be there?”

 _Always, for you. Where else would I be?,_ he thinks. Instead, he says: “Sure. Inarizaki 706, cleared to land on runway two-seven, winds two-one-zero.”

“Roger that. Cleared to land, runway two-seven.”

“I’ll see you soon. Welcome home, Atsumu.”

“Thanks, Omi-kun,” Atsumu replies. Kiyoomi hears the smile in his voice even through the miles of static.

He watches intently as the little yellow dot on his radar gets closer and closer, then disappears. As it does, Atsumu’s aircraft shrieks onto the runway, decelerating rapidly to come to a smooth and complete stop. It’s a perfect landing, one Atsumu is no doubt proud of.

Kiyoomi cracks his knuckles, and gets back to work.

Fifteen minutes fly by, and before he knows it, Suna is tapping him on his shoulder and breaking him out of the radar-induced daze he had found himself in. Kiyoomi slips his headset from his ears, and looks up at his coworker. He follows his gaze to the phone he’s holding out in front of him, camera aimed at the ramp outside. Kiyoomi’s eyes widen.

A rickety car belonging to one of the ground crew is speeding across the tarmac, swerving lethally from side to side. It’s coming from the arrivals terminal towards the control tower, and Kiyoomi quickly realises that one of the car’s passengers is coming for him. He hopes that Atsumu isn’t the one driving, because the driver is steering the car like they’re trying to pursue a secondary career as a very poor racecar driver.

Kiyoomi sighs and picks up his coat. Suna raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t you wanna stay to see what’s going on?” he asks, pinching his screen to zoom in.

“I already know what’s going on,” he replies, “which is why I’m leaving.”

Suna turns away from his phone as Kiyoomi makes to clock out and leave, eyes wide. “Huh? Wait, don’t tell me that’s _Atsumu_.”

Kiyoomi considers Suna’s expression. It’s evolved from somewhat neutral amusement to something more openly interested. “And if it is?”

A small smile appears. “Then I’d say it’s about time, really. Haven’t you been penpals for months now?”

“Almost a year,” Kiyoomi corrects, slipping his hi-vis vest over his coat and grabbing the last of his things.

The car screeches to a halt outside the tower, and Kiyoomi starts towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Suna pocket his phone with a shake of his head, sitting back down at his desk. “Good luck, Sakusa,” he calls, receiving a small wave in return. “You’re gonna need it with a Miya.”

The heavy door swings shut behind him after he opens it with his keycard, taking quick strides toward the stairwell. Atsumu couldn’t enter the building with his clearance level, so Kiyoomi knows he’d be waiting on the other side of the front door. It makes his palms sweat a little, and he hopes he isn’t out of breath by the time he gets to the ground floor.

He stops for a second when he reaches the entrance. He can see the back of Atsumu’s head through one of the small windows, his phone glued to his ear as he gestures wildly. He whips around when Kiyoomi’s keycard beeps and he steps through the doorway.

Kiyoomi has to shield his eyes from the bright light of dawn, squinting against it. Atsumu hangs up his phone mid-sentence, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. He has his back facing the sun, its rays outlining him in a deep orange that brings out the gold in his eyes. Suddenly, recognition sparks in them, and Atsumu jabs a finger at his face.

“It’s you!” he blurts. “That hot weirdo from San Francisco!”

Kiyoomi bats the offending finger away from his face and scowls. He watches a bead of sweat roll down Atsumu’s forehead to settle against his temple. “You’re one to talk, turning up here looking like you’ve just ran a mile.”

“Well maybe I did! It ain’t easy to get across an airport in fifteen minutes, y’know,” Atsumu retorts, scratching the back of his neck—a nervous habit, perhaps? “I even had to catch a ride from Yaku, and he drives like a fuckin’ maniac.”

Kiyoomi considers him. His shirt is creased, tie loosened and top button undone for extra room. His hair is pushed back from his forehead, and he really has broken a sweat. “You seriously ran here?”

“Yeah, I did,” he admits. He pulls Kiyoomi’s postcard from his pocket and waves it with a small, tired smile. “After readin’ this, I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss ya again. I can’t believe we were on the same flight and ya told me in a _postcard_. Ya couldn’t stick around for me, Omi?”

Kiyoomi glances away to the side to avoid staring too hard at the way Atsumu still looks so beautiful despite it all. “I figured you would find me eventually. Took you long enough though, don’t you think?”

Atsumu huffs and takes a small step forward, leaning so that his face reappears in Kiyoomi’s vision. “Like ya made it easy for me. Hidin’ in plain sight was cruel.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t put two and two together when it’s right under your nose.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know, I’m a math _genius.”_

Kiyoomi can’t help it; a genuine laugh bubbles up from his throat. He watches Atsumu’s smile spread and grow wide enough to crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

“As much as I’d like to say you’re lying, I don’t think you are for once.”

A comfortable silence falls over them. Atsumu turns to watch with him as a jet taxis onto the runway and comes to a stop, flaps and slats flipping up and down as the pilots complete their pre-takeoff checks. A low rumble can be heard as they start their engines, pushing the aircraft forward into a steady crawl down the tarmac. Half a mile down, the engines roar and it accelerates to full speed, finally rotating and lifting up smoothly into the air. It shrinks to a near invisible dot in the distance, then Atsumu unplugs his ears and turns back to face Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi looks away from the plane, and back to Atsumu. He thinks of radio static, postcards from exotic destinations, and feels his heart start to take off, too.

“What now then, ATC-kun?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Kiyoomi matches him. “Drinks on you, Captain?”

“Huh? You’re the one who asked me out!”

“So? I deserve it after a year of this nonsense.”

Atsumu readjusts his hat under his arm and stands to his full height to brush himself down. Kiyoomi finds himself staring at the wings pinned to the lapel of his jacket, and barely notices the nerves hidden under his still-bright smile. “I think we both do,” he says, shuffling from foot to foot, “but, uh, I kinda don’t know how to get back to the terminal from here, so…”

Kiyoomi sighs and fastens his hi-vis vest, reaching out to take Atsumu’s hand. “I suppose it’s a good thing I do, then.”

Atsumu stares down at it dumbly for a moment, then starts laughing, taking one exhausted step closer to properly twine their fingers together. “Cleared to land?”

Looking at the excited joy behind the exhaustion on Atsumu’s face, Kiyoomi realises that his home was never meant to be in the skies. He was meant to be here on the ground, a tether and anchor for those who did belong up there. He squeezes Atsumu’s hand gently.

“Welcome home, Atsumu.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends the main part of the story. The last chapter is an epilogue, aka a short excuse for even more fluff.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far!


	4. Airpilogue

Within days of their first meeting, Atsumu swipes Omi’s phone to change his contact name to ‘My Captain’ with a sparkling heart emoji. He thinks it’s appropriate, even if Kiyoomi says the opposite when he finally notices. Apparently Suna noticed first, surprising no-one. It quickly becomes a running joke between him and Osamu, to Atsumu’s dismay.

He loves Omi. It’s the kind of love that grew like a field of wildflowers, from a hundred interactions over dozens of miles, thousands of tiny seedlings planted themselves in his heart to sprout and bloom into scores of colours months later. He didn’t notice it for so long, but the moment he did, he wondered at how he never noticed the blossoms sooner.

A new tradition is born when he tapes a CD in a clear plastic case to one of his postcards to Omi one day. On it is a playlist of songs ranging from ridiculous to sappy at best, and despite Omi’s supposed hatred of the romantic and silly, he gets one in return a month later.

With every postcard now comes a gift, usually a tiny souvenir from their respective travels. Atsumu learns that Omi has a fondness for keyrings, and that he stores everything Atsumu has ever given him in a box beside his desk. One day, Atsumu receives a copy of an apartment key to clip to his own.

Every time Omi welcomes him home over the radio or to his face, Atsumu feels more and more connected to the world on the ground than he has in years. There’s a very specific feeling in aviation: never quite feeling tied down to a routine, to a home, to a single place or person. Every single day Atsumu meets and works with brand new people, rarely forming proper connections with any of them. The key to Omi’s apartment makes him feel like he has a home to come back to when he needs one. Kiyoomi keeps and washes each of Atsumu’s shirts that he leaves behind, and before he knows it, half of his wardrobe belongs to Atsumu.

Eventually, he takes the remaining half of his wardrobe with him when he moves in. His own apartment was practically empty of his belongings by then with how he was never there and—well, only one apartment felt like home anymore, and it wasn’t his.

Omi contests his status as a ‘math genius’ one day. It gives Atsumu an idea that just won’t leave his head no matter how hard he tries to evict it.

He comes to a decision. He flips over a postcard, clicks his pen, and gets to work.

_To: Omi_

_Greetings from São Paulo! The weather is beautiful, perfect for flying. I have a question for you, if you can figure it out._

The moment the postcard arrives at Omi’s desk, he knows about it. Omi was immediately suspicious, taking his break to call Atsumu on his day off and tell him as such.

“Atsumu, stop being cryptic,” he says, exasperated. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Atsumu laughs from his spot on their sofa, full of childish glee. “I told ya, you’ve gotta crack the code first. If ya can’t, ya have to admit I’m a genius.”

“Can I say you’re a genius now and just get it over with?”

“Now, now, where’s the fun in that?” he sing-songs. “Plus, I know ya don’t mean it anyway, asshole.”

Omi hangs up, Atsumu grins. It wouldn’t take him too long once he put in a little effort, he knew.

Three days later, and he’s proven right.

“‘Cleared to land, meet me at home?’” Omi says slowly through the radio, clearly unconvinced. “That’s it?”

“Yep!” Atsumu confirms.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.”

The radio crackles in the few seconds of silence Omi leaves before he says, “Unfortunately.”

Atsumu cackles as his co-pilot groans next to him. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

When Kiyoomi gets home that evening, Atsumu is already there. He’s sitting at their kitchen table, bouncing his leg and twiddling his thumbs. He looks up when Kiyoomi approaches, nearly blinding him with a megawatt smile. “Knew ya’d figure it out eventually,” he says.

There’s apprehension in Kiyoomi’s gut, but he can’t quite pin down why. Maybe it’s the look on Atsumu’s face; his smile is beautiful and all-encompassing, but by now, Kiyoomi can tell when he’s nervous. He drops his bag on the table and squints down at his partner. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, now?”

Atsumu’s smile falters. He takes a deep breath.

“Back in flight school, we had this motto: ‘we don’t need things like memories’. Kita, my training captain, used to say he kinda disagreed with it, but I never really got why,” he says, shoving his hands deeper into his trouser pockets. “Each flight is its own, what happened yesterday won’t happen again today if I take things for granted, y’know? Who needs memories when you have yourself and your skills, basically. I liked it.

“But that’s the thing Omi, I don’t need memories, I want them. You’re the reason, because I want you—forever. I can’t imagine not having you in my life anymore, and I wanna make memories with you for the rest of my days.”

Halfway through his speech, Kiyoomi found himself feeling a little light-headed, dropping into the seat opposite Atsumu before his knees gave way. He didn’t enter their apartment with many expectations that night, but even with those he did have, this was not on the list.

Atsumu pulls a small velvet box from his pocket, dropping from his chair to the tiles. “I know we can’t really get married yet, but I know that the day we can, I’ll still want it more than anythin’,'' he says, taking one last deep breath to exhale it from behind a quivering smile, “So what do ya say?”

Kiyoomi, who once dreamed of clouds rolling below him and a life of peaceful solitude, finds that there’s only one part of his old dream that remains in his heart. He’s never wanted to be grounded, linked to something, or, even worse, some _one_ with a false promise of forever.

But Atsumu was different, wasn’t he?

Atsumu had always been different, from the moment saw his first perfect, ridiculous landing. So when Kiyoomi thinks of his current dream, he realises it’s already in front of him: Atsumu on one knee, with a promise of forever that Kiyoomi knows he’ll keep.

Who needs to fly when he can just look at Atsumu and feel like he’s soaring?

They’ve traded postcards, gifts, keys, staticky ‘welcome home’s. Their relationship has always been one that revolves around the simple idea of exchange. Atsumu offers Kiyoomi a ring as gold as his wings and stripes, and a promise. Kiyoomi must still give something in return.

Atsumu already has his heart, so there’s only one thing left to give. He matches Atsumu’s smile with his own, and says yes.

**Author's Note:**

> The project that has haunted me since it was born in the SASS Discord server this summer is finally complete. 
> 
> I'd like to thank each and every one of the people involved in its creation--in particular Backspin for doing an amazing job at beta reading this nonsense. It all started as me thirsting over pilot uniforms and one big setup to a drift joke, and became the longest piece I've written to date (and my first completed multi-chapter fic!). I'm very proud of it.
> 
> Another massive thanks to Lee (@YORUSS) for the beautiful fanart!!
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for reading!! <3
> 
> [Twitter / ](https://twitter.com/vicari_us)  
> [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/vicari_us)


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